A True Love of Mine
by Sariandra
Summary: The creation of Mr. Sark


Before I get into all this, there is one thing I need to make perfectly clear to you.

I never meant to hurt her.

And I mean that, with all my heart. It was an accident.

The window had broken two nights before she was supposed to come home. She was staying in Cambridge with a girlfriend from University, so that I could surprise her. It was stormy, and terribly windy, and somehow the window came loose and crashed down. The windowpane shattered. It was hell trying to clean up all the glass. Even after it was swept away, a gaping hole remained. It looked as if it were an open mouth, laughing at me.

But, two days later, she would come home to find me cooking dinner. We would eat, while remembering the numerous other dinners we spent together in the past eighteen months. She would laugh at my stories, and tell a few of her own.

I would surprise her with tickets to that play she wanted to see, at the theatre just down the road from our flat. We would be a few minutes late, because she always hates to be perfectly punctual. I would hold her hand as the lights went down, and kiss her gently as the final curtain call ended.

We would walk home together, arm in arm. We would giggle at each other as we told stories of how we first met. She would say I was rude but handsome, and I would tell her how I loved her at first sight. We would stop and kiss under a tree we passed every day, and continue home while discussing the past and thinking of the future.

I bought two bottles of wine, which we would drink on the rooftop. The sky would be clear enough to see the stars, even though we were in the heart of the city. She would try to count them all, but lose count when I kiss her on the neck.

I would tell her how happy she made me.

She would kiss me, and pull me down into her lap, where I would rest my head. I would stare up at her, while she ran her fingers through my hair. I would think of Aphrodite, and how plain she would look compared to MY goddess... who was stunning, but was made even more beautiful by my immeasurable love for her.

The hours would pass, and the night would wear on. We would eventually decide to return to the warmth of the indoors, and I would spread a blanket out in front of the fireplace. We would sit down together and drink the rest of the wine, while we both sang along badly to Simon & Garfunkel's "Scarborough Fair".

It was her favorite song.

The fire would roar and we would kiss again, like lovers often do. I would wrap my arms around her body, pulling her closer to me. My hands would find their place in the curve of her waist, and I would bury my face in her long hair.

She always smelled of lavender.

I would brush her hair back with my fingers, and kiss the soft skin of her neck. I would feel her gasp softly against my lips. Her hands would play at the end of my shirt and, when it was time, would lift it over my head. An impish smile would light up her face, as her green eyes twinkled in the soft firelight.

I loved it when she smiled.

I would kiss her gently, making sure I paid my respects to each and every part of her lips. I would lay her down in front of me, naked, so that I could take in her beauty. Her glowing skin, her ruby red lips, every part of her a familiar mystery awaiting my touch.

We would make love many times that night, greeting the dawn with cries of passion and love. And when I knew she could take no more, I would give her something I'd been holding on to for three months - a small black box containing a delicate diamond ring. I would ask her to marry me, while stammering nervously. Tears would fall down her cheeks.

She would say 'yes.'

I would kiss her, and make promises by firelight. I would reassure her that I loved her more than anything else in the world... that I always would. We would make wedding plans while lying in each other's arms. She would want to get married in Ireland, where her family lived. We would plan on a summer wedding, something simple.

We would be happy.

She would remain silent for a while, and I would ask her what was wrong. She would say that she had something she needed to tell me. She would tell me about being sick the past couple of weeks, and the test she and her girlfriend bought while she stayed in Cambridge.

"I'm pregnant." She'd say.

I'd lay there, silent, thinking about what she had just said. Then I'd imagine a tiny human being with my hands and her smile. I'd imagine changing diapers and birthday parties, messy faces and swimming lessons. And then, as if a bolt of lightening crashed down, it hit me...

I wanted to have children with this woman.

I would hold her close and tell her I loved her again. I would caress her naked abdomen and tell her exactly how I felt... which was that I wanted to marry her, and create a family with her. I would reassure her that I wanted our child, and would love them both more than life itself. She would smile through the tears and ask me what kind of child I wanted. And my reply?

"A healthy one."

We would discuss how to deliver both announcements to her parents, as well as baby names. She would fall asleep in my arms as the sun painted the sky with mauve, gray and orange...

...but we never got the chance to experience any of it.

I can't explain how it happened really, because I'm not too sure about it myself. The night the window broke, I had gone out to the pub. I wasn't pissed, but I had knocked back a few.

I've always been a little spooked by storms, ever since I was young. But that night, I was afraid of my own shadow. It had been my father's gun.

She had come home early to surprise me.

I never saw her face. She was standing by the broken window. I thought she was an intruder. I told her that I'd shoot if she moved and that I was calling the police. She started to turn, and I shot. I dropped the gun immediately. I've always hated the smell of gunpowder. I called for help. They told me to check and see if she was still alive.

I stood at her feet, frozen by the shock of what had just happened. The adrenaline racing through my veins caused my body to tremble. I dropped the phone when I heard her whisper my name. I was able to walk four steps forward before collapsing beside her. She was covered in blood, and it was hard to tell where exactly my bullet had hit her. There was just so much blood. After seeing the wound, something inside me confirmed my worst fear: she would bleed out before help came.

I tried to pick her up, but I couldn't bear to hear the strangled cries that escaped from inside her. So, I held her in my arms. Her breaths had become shallow, and quick. After a few moments, her eyes locked upon mine.

"You're going to be okay." I lied.

Her face twisted in pain and she grasped at my hand.

"It hurts." She said softly.

Tears ran down her cheeks, but I didn't brush them away this time. I couldn't. I began to cry silent sobs. My tears fell, but I never once tore my eyes from hers. There was a blood-soaked piece of hair in her face, which I brushed away gently.

Her body shook from shock, and she quickly became cold. I tried to warm her, but I knew it was no use. She'd never be warm again. So I held her and tried my best to ignore the warm blood soaking into my clothes.

She began to cough, and I could see the blood rising inside her throat. Her breathing was becoming ragged. Her eyes had suddenly taken on the look of a wild animal in a trap.

"I. Can't. Breathe." She gasped.

She let out a strangled cry and her chest began to heave, as if she were going to vomit. I can't describe the noises that came next. I tried my best to help her breathe, but there was so much blood.

"I'm scared." She whispered.

Her lips were turning purple and her fingers were ice cold. I broke down completely and gathered her up in my arms. I kissed her and buried my face in her blood-soaked hair.

"I'm sorry." I cried over and over again as I held her. But she couldn't respond. She had already stopped breathing. She was no longer mine.

I never meant to hurt her.

It was an accident.

But there she lay, dead, on the cold concrete floor of our London flat. Her blood was on my hands, and my tears were on her cheeks. I held her and rocked her until my arms refused to cooperate anymore. It all seemed like some sort of nightmare... or a very cruel April fool's joke. But it was all very real.

The police came, nearly an hour later, and took my statement. It was the first time anyone had called me "Mr. Sark". They determined that the shooting was accidental, but accident or no... it never took the pain or guilt away. Her blood stained my soul.

She and I took one last trip together. Three days after she died in my arms, we arrived in Dublin for the last time. There would be no wedding and no newborn cries... we had only tears and goodbyes.

Her mother had asked me not to attend the funeral or wake. Her family, like myself, couldn't grasp how the accident happened... and many wanted nothing more than "just 5 minutes alone" with me.

I respected her wishes, but left her daughter's engagement ring with her. I asked her if it would be okay if she was buried with it. She never managed to say a word; she only nodded as she sobbed. She clung onto me for what seemed like an eternity, but I knew that this woman was the one person in the entire world who was in just as much pain as I was, if not more. I left the island of my ancestors without a word.

A year later, I visited her grave for the first time. With a bouquet of daisies, I paid my respects and sat next to her headstone and talked to her. When I was through, I traced the lines I had engraved especially for her.

_"Remember me to one who lives there.  
She once was a true love of mine."_

I said goodbye one last time, leaving behind a sprig of dried lavender and all the love I would ever possess in my entire life.

She was the first real love of my life. She was also the first person I had ever killed. Looking back, I suppose that's why I became who and what I am now. When she died, everything good and pure in my life died with her. A canyon of sorrow and hatred replaced my heart. I still had the ability to love, but the complete hatred I felt for myself buried it deep down inside. I wanted the whole world to acknowledge my pain... but it didn't. The self-loathing ate what was left of me, creating a man who needed everyone he encountered to despise him as much as he despised himself.

Killing myself would have been the easy way out, but I wouldn't do it. I needed to suffer for what I had done, and I do, every single day. But I miss her, more than I could ever express in words. I never thought I could ever feel as empty as I do now.

As the years pass, my memories start to blur at the edges, and when I think of her now, there isn't one specific memory that sticks out. When I think of her, I am reminded of little things: the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the way she made the bed, the lavender lotion she used on her hands, or a book she had read to me on a rainy afternoon. There isn't a day that goes by that she isn't there, somewhere inside of me. And it hurts, all the memories, but that's the way the human heart works. Love, pain, joy, sorrow... each and every emotion is connected to one another. And no matter how much it hurts to remember, I know that forgetting would be unbearable.


End file.
